Cool! (2 page)

I
’ve been having these horrible thoughts about Mum and Dad. I’ve had them ever since Dad left home, but they keep coming back and I can’t stop them. I just can’t get them out of my head. I’ve tried. But I keep seeing that huge collage of family photos in our front hall at home, stretching from the kitchen door to the back room. There’s hundreds of pictures of all of us, going back years and years – holidays, school photos, Christmases, birthday parties – all mixed together, a sort of family patchwork, a patchwork of memories. Lucky sleeping
inside my pram. Lucky swimming with me. I used to stand there in the hall when I was little, gazing up at them, usually looking for me and Lucky. Now I can see them in my head. I’m looking at them now.

There’s lots of photos of Mum and Dad before they got married, before they had me. They look really young and happy, on a skiing trip together, by the sea, just having fun. There’s wedding photos – Mum in a long white dress and Dad all posh in a suit. Then I’m there with them. After that they don’t look quite so happy in the photos ever again. I always seem to be between them – first me, then Ellie.

Since the day Dad left us, I think I’ve always known it – no matter what Dad told me the other day. I know that it was
me
that split them up, me and Ellie, but mostly me I think, because I was the first. I caused the split. I made Dad leave – not on purpose, of course not, but just by being there, just by being born.

If Dad could only put things right with Mum, like he says he will, then I know I wouldn’t have to have these horrible thoughts any more. I hope he can. I so hope he can. I’d cross my fingers if I could.

I doze, off and on, on and off. But I’m still here. I’m always still here, lying on my bed. People come and people go all the time. Marty pops in to see me sometimes, but he never stays long because he doesn’t know what to say. He never talks about the accident. No one does. He never says a word about Lucky.
No one does. But at least he gives me the football scores. Chelsea lost on Saturday to Arsenal, and Marty was over the moon. That’s the only sad thing about Marty – he’s an Arsenal fan. Then Mrs Tinley brought me some flowers when she came. Mum was there. “Mrs Tinley’s got you some lovely freesias, Robbie,” she said. “Isn’t that nice? You can talk to him if you like, Mrs Tinley.” I don’t think Mrs Tinley wanted to talk to me, not really. She cleared her throat. “Well Robbie. I hope you liked the tape we sent you. You’d better get back to school quick you know. You’re missing a lot of lessons.” I hadn’t thought of that before she said it, and it made me feel like laughing. But I couldn’t.

Sometimes I seem to get muddled about who was here and when, and about
who’s still in the room. I think Mrs Tinley must have gone, because Mum and Gran and Ellie have been here for a while now, and they’re not talking as if Mrs Tinley’s still here. Ellie’s been moaning on about how I don’t look after Pongo like I should, because she found him on the floor under the bed. And Gran keeps crying and sniffing and saying she can’t help it. Mum’s saying it’ll be time to go soon. And I’m dozing off again.

Dad’s here now. Only a short visit, he says. He has to get off to rehearsals. He’s really happy. He tells me he’s got another job, in panto. He’s going to be one of the ugly sisters in
Cinderella
at the Northcott Theatre. “On at Christmas,” he says. “You’ll have to come and see me.” So I’ve got a Dad who’s an ugly sister. Weird or what?
He whispers in my ear as he’s going: “I think I’ve got a nice surprise for you, Robbie. It’ll take a bit of fixing up, but when it comes, it’ll be the best surprise in the world. I promise you. Can’t tell you what it is, or it won’t be a surprise. The doctor says surprises are good for you, and the bigger the surprise the better. This one could really wake you up, Robbie. That’s what he says. This is a whopper of a surprise. A real whopper!”

I know at once what it is. Obvious. Him and Mum, they’ve got together again. And that’s cool. Really cool!

I’ve been lying here ever since he left, feeling so happy about it. But I’ve been thinking that Dad shouldn’t have said anything to me about the ‘surprise’, because now I’ve guessed what it is, it
won’t be a surprise, will it? And if it isn’t a surprise then it can’t wake me up, can it? It hasn’t worked so far. I mean, I’m still asleep inside my coma. Coma – funny word, that. Looks a bit like comma. Sounds like it, too. Hope my coma is a comma, and not a full stop. I’m not exactly frightened of the “full stop”. But I would miss everyone, everyone at home, Marty, Chelsea, Zola. I’d miss Zola a whole lot.

Anyway, it’ll be great for Ellie if Mum and Dad have got back together again. When Dad left she was always coming into my room and crying her eyes out, and there was nothing I could do or say to make her feel any better. So even if my coma does turn out to be a “full stop” and I don’t wake up, at least Ellie will be
happy again. That’d be cool. Don’t know why Mum hates me saying that so much. ‘Cool’ is really cool!

Tracey says it a lot too. She said it just a moment ago when she came in to give me my bedbath. My best time of the day. I get to feel so fed up sometimes, and then Tracey comes in and she’s always happy and cheerful and chatty. “Bedbath, Robbie. Oh, look at the lovely flowers someone’s brought you! Here, smell.” And she wafts them under my nose. “Freesias. The best. Really cool. I only like flowers that smell nice. Don’t see any point in flowers if they don’t smell. So Robbie, I hear you’ve got an ugly sister for a Dad. He was telling me that what he wants most in all the world now is for you to come and see him in the panto at
Christmas. That gives you just five weeks to wake your ideas up and get yourself out of here. Not that I want to see you go. You’re good company. You know what I like about you, Robbie? You never complain. But then I suppose you’re the one patient I want to complain. The day you wake up and complain, you’ll be on your way out of here, and that’ll make everyone really happy, especially me.”

She chats on and on all the way through my bedbath. “By the way, Robbie, your Mum rang up. She’s coming in to see you again this evening, and she’s bringing someone else with her. She didn’t say who. Your Gran, I suppose. She’s lovely, your Gran.”

Please not Gran again. She’ll only sniffle. I mean, I love her lots. She’s the
coolest Gran anyone could ever have, a real wizard on computer games and she makes great pancakes, but she sniffles and she smells all powdery when she kisses me. And she’s been kissing me quite a lot lately. Everyone has, except Tracey. And I sort of wish she would. I like Tracey. I mean I get fed up hearing about all her troubles with Trevor the nerd, and all about her diet; but at least she talks to me like I’m listening, like I’m really alive, like I’m going to stay alive.

“There, that’s your bedbath done,” Tracey says. “That should make you feel a little better.” And she’s gone. I want so much to thank her. Because I do feel better. I feel fresher now, not sticky any more, not so manky. And anyway, I always feel better when Tracey’s around. From her
voice I’ve made up a picture of her in my head. She’s about thirty and she sounds very pretty. She’s tall, I reckon, and she’s got dark hair. And she has a nose ring. I don’t know why, but I’m sure she’s got a nose ring. I’ll see for myself one day, see how right or wrong I was. Not that it matters. She’s cool, anyway.

Mum’s come in again, like Tracey said she would. But Gran’s not with her. No powdery kiss. There’s someone else. “Robbie, I’ve brought someone in to see you. It’s all right, Mr McAllister. You can talk to Robbie, he’ll hear you.”

“Robbie? Robbie?” Not a voice I know, not a name I know. “I just had to come to say how sorry I am. My name’s Ian, Ian McAllister. It was me that knocked you down. Ever since it happened I’ve been
wanting to tell you, to explain…just to say how terrible I feel. And then your Mum rang me, and said it might help if I came to see you.”

You
feel terrible. How do you think
I
feel? “It all happened so quickly. One moment there was your dog running out into the road, and that other car hit it. And then you were there, right in front of me. I saw you too late, Robbie. I tried to stop. I really did…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He sounds Scottish, and he sounds upset, too, really unhappy.

“Robbie, Mr McAllister has come all the way down from Scotland to see you.” What do you want me to do, Mum? Do you want me to dance a Highland fling? Do you want me to wake up and say thank you? OK. Thanks for running me
over, Mr McThingemejig. I’m so angry. I’m churning up inside. I’m thinking: if you hadn’t been driving along in your silly car when I ran out, then I wouldn’t be here, would I? I mean, what are brakes for, Mr McThingemejig?

“Robbie, if I could turn the clock back…” He’s taking my hand. He sounds as if he’s got a moustache and a very short haircut. He sounds kind too, and honest. He’s saying what he feels, and suddenly I’m not so angry with him any more. “I’ve got kids of my own, Robbie, a bit older than you. And do you know what? I don’t even dare tell them about what I’ve done. Back home I can’t look folk in the eye any more.” He’s not crying exactly, but his voice is very wobbly.

“I didn’t know what to bring you. But your Mum told me how you love your football. So I’ve brought you a footie for when you get better. OK? Just you get better now, Robbie, so’s you can wake up and give it a right good kicking. And you can maybe give me a right good kicking and all, for putting you where you are now. How’d that be?” Cool, I’m thinking. He’s patting my hand. “I’m off now. See you, Robbie.”

Mum’s showing him out. “Thanks for coming,” she’s saying.

“Listen, Mrs Ainsley. I’d do anything, anything at all to help. And thanks, thanks for letting me come. I feel so terrible about this.”

“It was an accident, a dreadful accident. No one’s fault. The police said you were driving slowly and safely. It just happened. All that matters now is to get Robbie better, and your coming here might just help bring him round. Anything to stir him up, to make him angry, that’s what the doctors told me. And thanks for the football.”

He’s gone, and now I’m alone with Mum again. She’s come to sit beside me. She’s upset at me for not waking up. “Please Robbie, for God’s sake. For my
sake. Be angry. Be angry at him. Be angry at me for making you take Lucky out for his walk. Shout at me, I won’t mind. Just say something. Say ‘cool’ if you like. Shout it out a thousand times and I won’t mind. I won’t ever mind again, I promise.” She’s crying and I want to wake up so she’ll stop. I don’t want to shout at her, I want to wake up and hug her.

I reckon I’ve had half a dozen doctors in to see me, all looking after different bits of me – my head, my brain, my leg. But mostly I have Dr Smellybreath. He’s here now, pulling back my eyelids and breathing his garlicky breath all over me. Mum keeps asking him questions which he doesn’t want to answer. “Is there any change, Doctor?” “What about
brain damage?” “Has the swelling inside gone down, d’you think?” “Doctor, how long can he just lie there like this?” When Dr Smellybreath finishes all his poking and prodding, they go outside together, so I never hear the answers. It’s
me
you’re talking about, you know. Me –
my
head,
my
brain,
my
life. Don’t I have a right to know what’s going on?

In between my dozings off, all I can think about is Dad’s big surprise. Mum never let on anything about it. But that’s cool. She wouldn’t, would she? After all, it’s a secret, isn’t it?

Tracey’s come bouncing in. “All alone are we, Robbie?” She’s bending over me. “I’ve got news for you,” she whispers. “You’re the first person I’ve told. See this, Robbie?” Silly question, Tracey. Course
I can’t. “My ring. Just a cheap ring for now – we’ll get a proper one later. Trevor. He’s only asked me to marry him! Isn’t that great? Isn’t that cool?”

Cool, Tracey. Yeah, really cool.

D
ad seems to have forgotten all about that big ‘surprise’ of his. I’ve been looking forward to it happening every day, longing for it, but each time Mum and Dad come to see me, they come in separately. Mum doesn’t talk about Dad. Dad doesn’t talk about Mum. Nothing changes. Dad’s always promising things. I don’t know why I ever believe him. Neither of them ever says a word about Lucky. But then if he’s dead, why would they? They’d know it would only upset me.

Ellie thinks I’m half-dead already. She keeps asking Mum if I’ll go to heaven
when I’m dead. There’d better be football in heaven, that’s all I can say. If I’m going to be dead, I want there to be a heaven. But I don’t want to go there yet, or anywhere else. I want to stay here, and I want to stay alive. I know that if I want to stay alive, I’ve got to wake myself up. I must. I try really hard to break out, but my mind just won’t let me. It’s like it’s locked from the outside and I can’t find the key.

It’s funny. Before the accident I used to love dreaming. I can remember knowing I was in a dream and trying not to wake up from it, trying all I could to stay inside my dream to find out where it would take me, what would happen in the end. But I’d always wake up before I wanted to, so I’d never find out how my dream ended. Now, all I want is to get out of my dream – that’s
what I’m in, a sort of dream-bubble that I know is real. I so want it to burst, for me to break free, live properly, be me again. Instead, I just lie here like a great vegetable, wired up to machines that keep me alive. All I do is exist.

There’s a strange sort of buzz about the hospital today. Everyone’s whispering instead of talking. It’s like they’re trying to keep something from me. Even Tracey’s gone all mysterious on me. She’s giving me an especially long bedbath. “I’m not saying a word, Robbie, not a word, not if you opened your eyes this minute. If you offered me a million quid, you wouldn’t get it out of me. No way José!” Now she’s singing that song again: “
Days I’ll remember all my life
…and this is your great day, Robbie. I want you to look your very best for your great
day.” What great day? What is she going on about? Am I leaving hospital? What do they know that I don’t?

I can hear lots of giggling going on outside, then lots of shushing. Now the door’s opening. It squeaks and clunks, which is lucky for me because I can always tell when someone’s just come in or just gone out. That door’s been squeaking and clunking a lot more than usual in the last couple of hours.

“Hello Robbie. You all right, then?” Dad. Dad sounding excited, but trying to hide it. He’s coming nearer. “Robbie, you remember that surprise I told you about? Well, today’s the day. It’s here. Or rather he’s here. You’re not going to believe this, Robbie. But he’s come to see you specially, because he’s heard all about you and he wants to help
you to get better. All the way from Chelsea Football Club, Robbie. It’s your hero. It’s Zola. Number 25. Gianfranco Zola.”

“Robbie?” It’s
his
voice. I recognise his Italian accent. I’ve heard it on TV. It’s him! It’s really him! It’s Gianfranco Zola, the coolest footballer in the world, and he’s come to see me! “Hey, Robbie. It’s me. It’s Gianfranco. It’s like your Papa says. I came to see you, because I want you to wake up. You want to wake up for your Mama and Papa, Robbie! You want to wake up for me? You want to do this for me?”

Do I? Do I? Of course I do. I’m screaming inside, screaming with excitement, screaming to wake up. Zola! No 25! God! Right here. So close I could reach out and touch him. I want to open my eyes and see him more than anything else in the whole world.
And I should be able to do it, because this is a real surprise. So if the doctor’s right, I should be waking up. But I haven’t.

The truth is – and I can hardly believe I’m even thinking this – but the truth is I’m a little disappointed. I’m disappointed because this isn’t the surprise I’ve been expecting, or hoping for. I was hoping that Mum and Dad would be coming to see me together, that Dad had moved back home and that he’d be staying. This is just silly. I’ve got Gianfranco Zola in my room, my absolute hero of all time, and I’m feeling let down.

I hear the chair by my bed move nearer. He’s sitting down. He’s taking my hand. “Your Papa, he wrote to me, Robbie. He says, please come to see my boy. So I am here. Listen. If you don’t get
better, you can’t come back to Chelsea and see us, can you? You want to see us again, eh? ‘Course you do. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll keep a seat, especially for you, in the Directors’ Box when you wake up. You like that? Next month, it’s the big match. We play Manchester United at home, at Stamford Bridge. You want to be there? We’ll wipe the floor with them. We’ll play them off the park. We’ll do it just for you. But first you’ve got to wake up. Do it for us, Robbie. You want us to beat Man U, OK? You’ve got to be there to help us. You hear me?” I hear you, Zola, I hear you. And I’m going to be there, I promise.

“And after we beat them out of sight, I tell you what we’ll do, Robbie. You and me, we’ll go out on the pitch and we’ll
kick a ball about. And I’ll teach you a few tricks. How’s that?

“I’ve got to go now. I’ve got training. I never miss my training. But I think about you all the time, and you think about me. OK?” He’s getting up. He’s going. Wake up! Say thank you! Say goodbye! Don’t just lie there. “Oh, Robbie, I forgot something.” He’s coming back. “I’ve brought you a shirt. It’s not from the Megastore. Nothing like that. It’s my shirt, my Number 25 shirt. I wore it last week when we played West Ham. We should have won but we got lazy in the second half. Still, a draw is not too bad. And don’t you worry. It’s all washed nice and clean for you. Not smelly.”

He’s laying it over me. I can feel its softness. I can feel its blueness. I can feel the magic of it soaking into me. “It suits
you just fine, Robbie. You and me, we’re both little people. But it’s not about size, is it? It’s about what goes on in your head. When I was a boy, maybe your age, I was always the smallest one. They told me: Gianfranco, you’ll never be a footballer. You’re too small, too weak. I thought inside my head, I’ll show you. I’ll
show everyone. So. You show me, Robbie, you show everyone. You wake up. I’ll look for you in the stand when we play Man U. So you’d better be there, OK?”

Then he’s saying goodbye to Dad and this time he’s gone for good, and I’m filling up with sadness, overflowing, bursting with it. It’s like that song Mum’s always playing on her Buddy Holly CD at home.
It’s raining, raining in my heart.

I can feel somehow that there’s lots of people in the room now. I thought before that it was just Zola and Dad and me.

“Don’t worry, Mr Ainsley. These things sometimes take time.” Dr Smellybreath is examining me as he talks. “His pulse is up. So is his blood pressure. He was listening. He was hearing. I’m sure he was. We just have to give him time.”

“How much time, Doctor?” Dad’s saying. “How much time has he got?”

“Who knows? I’ve known patients live for months like this.”

“But some of them don’t come out of it, do they, Doctor?”

“You mustn’t think like that, Mr Ainsley,” Tracey’s saying. “Robbie’s doing his best. So are you. So are we. If we don’t believe he’ll come out of it, then he’ll know it. If we give up on him, Mr Ainsley, he could give up on us.”

“I don’t know what more I can do,” Dad says. “I really thought Zola would do the trick. I really did.” I think he’s sadder than I’ve ever known him.

“Listen.” Tracey’s speaking almost in a whisper now. But I can hear. “If Zola can’t bring him back to us – and he still might –
then there’ll be another way. We’ll just have to find it, that’s all.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Let’s talk about it outside, shall we? I don’t think we should be talking like this in front of Robbie. He could be hearing every word we say.”

The room’s emptying. Everyone’s going out. “That Zola,” Tracey’s saying as she goes, “he’s dishy. He’s really dishy.” Then the door’s squeaking and clunking and I’m alone again.

Dishy! Dishy! That man is only the best, only the coolest. And I’ve got his Number 25 shirt, his very own shirt. I wish Tracey would put it on me. I want to wear it. It’ll be the magic I need to bring me out of myself and back to the land of the living. I know it. It’s just got to be.